


Another Kind of Worship

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kisses, M/M, Other, Shower Sex, Socks, aziraphale has none, crowley has two dicks, first time for the demon at least, post armegeddidn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Gabriel once said something to Aziraphale that he apparently couldn't shake, which has caused him to act a little funny in the garden. Crowley makes it his mission to figure it out, up until all his anxieties start to build up and he nearly ruins everything and then? They shower.





	Another Kind of Worship

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry my first venture into Good Omens was shower sex.
> 
> Or AM I sorry? No, probably not.
> 
> Also, i can't find the post, but someone on Tumblr drew Aziraphale with golden cracks on his skin for his "angel" marks and I fell in love with that image immediately. Additionally, my girlfriend and I have this headcannon about Crowley also having scars on his legs, which I'll possibly explore in a different fic, I just wanted to get the little bit in there and therefore have a warning here for you now.
> 
> Also also, I joked about socks, figured out I hadn't specifically removed them, and then kept them in the whole time babey! Yeah!

"What are you doing?"

Crowley leans his elbows on the short gate leading into the garden. Just because they've finally left one shortly after their jaunt through Armegedidn't doesn't mean they can't indulge and return to one outside the cottage they've miraculously procured in South Downs. His angel does love to indulge, doesn't he? And these plants know how to keep mum on Crowley’s gardening habits when a certain ethereal being is walking amongst them. Oh, it will be a verdant and terrified paradise soon enough, this is truth. This is law. This is-

"Aziraphale," Crowley tries again, louder. " _What_ are you _doing?"_

What he's doing is jumping and flapping his arms all about under the tree. It looks like miserable work and it looks like Aziraphale isn’t enjoying himself. Can’t even be helped by the backdrop of their pretty home.

This tree’s cherries because an apple tree might be nice, but Crowley's not so sentimental as to carry the reminder of that first perfect garden into their newly shared sanctuary. The irony too sadistic to dream. However, he's come across some really lovely little recipes for cherry pie he's dreamt about instead, perhaps a little treat for Aziraphale, when he's done doing...whatever this is.

" _Aziraphale!_ "

Aziraphale's hands smack down to his sides and he huffs upwards, cheeks ruddy with exertion. "Yes, dear?" he finally chokes out. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said?"

Crowley nudges the gate open with his hip, letting it glide on hinges that would never need an oiling or a greasing under his care, if they knew what was good for them.

"What," he tries a final time, "are you doing? Are you trying to get up into that tree, flapping like you are? Do we have an interloper in our garden?"

"Interloper?" Aziraphale dabs the back his hand against his damp forehead and looks up, frowning as he inspects the leaves. "No. No interloper."

"Alright then." Crowley steps closer and touches the unfamiliar cotton fabric of Aziraphale's strange new shirt. "Are those sweat pants? Are we having a bit of a crisis? The sort where we buy fancy new cars and smoke cigars and bleach our hair?" Crowley's trying to be cute and reaches to brush back Aziraphale's curls but is barred access as Aziraphale ducks and gently pushes Crowley's hand away.

"No," he answers with forced heat. "No, no new cars, thank you. Not for me."

"That's alright. I wouldn't want one either." He rolls his eyes back towards the lane where the Bentley is parked, sitting pretty and pristine in the dappled sunlight. He doesn't know about waxing and canvas cover sheets to keep it tidy. The Bentley does that all on its own, thank you. "And you'd just get yourself a little tan Carolla or something instead of a proper convertible."

"I don't want a convertible either," Aziraphale answers, his cute nose stuck up in the air. Crowley resists the urge to peck it. It could go for a good pecking. The whole angel, in fact, could go for a good pecking. His eyes roam that delicious form, hidden behind the safety of his sunglasses. "I just want to finish this set and then I'll be right in."

Crowley blinks hard enough that it telegraph's itself on the rest of his face. 

"Set?"

Aziraphale gives him a look - pursed lips, furrowed brows, like the poor man's upset with him or something - before he steps back and starts jumping again. He splays his feet and claps his hands above his head before he brings them back down in a poor facsimile of wings flapping.

"Set?" Crowley asks again, watching Aziraphale do his calisthenics. "What's got you in the mood you think you need to do exercises in the garden?" 

Aziraphale looks at him again before he starts to bend over to touch his knees. He grunts with the effort. It's not that he's inflexible, it's that he's been out here hours, maybe two or more and ethereal or not….

"Alright, alright." Crowley finally touches Aziraphale's shoulders, helping him stand. "Enough of that. I'm getting second-hand sweat just watching you and there’s better activities to get your blood pumping than all this…this."

“Nothing worse than a juke. Can’t dance without—”

“Jumping.”

“And stretching.”

“Sure and stretching. And reaching and grabbing. And all that. But you’re not dancing, Angel. Haven’t even kissed my cheek yet for it.” Another easy tease, trying to get Aziraphale to do what he does best and come in and compliment Crowley on some burnt and overly sugary pastries.

He might not admit it readily, but Aziraphale leans into Crowley's touch more than necessary, sighing heavily up towards the sky.

"Out with it," Crowley demands, apparently serious enough that it startles the angel out of his hands.

"It's nothing!" Aziraphale answers with a put upon pout. "I'm just getting a little exercise in. That's not horrible."

"Well, it looks horrible."

"Don't be rude!" He swats at Crowley's arm, who feigns hurt, rubbing the spot. "Look, just forget it."

"Hard to forget. Thought you forgot how to use your wings for a second and we were gonna have to start having flying lessons."

“You and I both know we don’t use them like that.”

“Like that. Yeah.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue and one more verbal barb was going to put him in a mood, so it was best to drop it. Crowley goes for a new tactic by way of slipping his arms around Aziraphale, tugging on his soft sides. He earns a soft chuckle, the little upset wrinkle still pinching Aziraphale's face.

"Look, I'm sorry. Can I tempt you to some tea?" Crowley nudges his nose against his angel's cheek. They’ve done whatever they’ve done—serious pep talk, he thinks—to save the world from the prophesized End Times and it’s taken them this long where he gets to give these innocent little touches to the Angel and not burst into Hellfire over it. It’s perfect. "I've been playing with frosting. I've even made it pink this time."

Aziraphale almost melts, humming at the thought of trying one of Crowley's absurd sugar cookies, likely formed in some sort of genitalia to get a rise out of him. Naughty biscuits make Crowley laugh right until Aziraphale purposefully snaps the head off one of his more well-endowed treats and compliments Crowley on finally getting the ratio for baking soda just right.

They’re so close to it. Just turn around, head through the gate and the back door, pop on in and they could have one of them eating and the other watching eating and having a good time.

But the angel suddenly backs out of Crowley's arms. 

"No," he answers and puffs up his chest. "No temptations today."

"What?" Crowley fumbles with empty hands, thrown off balance both physically and mentally. "You know I'm only joking."

"Either way," Aziraphale says, as though that explains himself, when it certainly does not. "You can...you can take your frosting and...put it in the bin!"

By Satan’s stupid head…he looks cute. Crowley has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

"Right, now that's just rude." Crowley steps in to get a start on his arguments when Aziraphale's poor face crumbles and this strange resolve he'd mustered up finally cracks. "What _is_ it already?"

"I'm soft!" Aziraphale cries. His fingers start dancing, wriggling together to find a base for his anxieties.

"Yes…?" Crowley tips his chin down to look over the rim of his sunglasses. "And?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale wails. Instead of tying his hands together, they flatten on his tummy. "Gabriel said—"

"'Gabriel said,'" Crowley repeats, slowly coming upon the thorn stuck in Aziraphale's proverbial paw.

"I tried to ignore it. I _know_ it's been too long since I've been in charge of any armies, not that I'm planning on taking that up, mind you." Aziraphale looks thoroughly disgusted by the idea, which is good for him because Crowley was beginning to half-suspect someone had traded his angel in for an imposter. "And I _like_ food."

"I know you do," Crowley growls in appreciation. Just enough of a rumble to stutter Aziraphale's explanation, not enough to throw him off completely.

"Yes. And. Well, I mean. I shouldn't be ashamed of it."

"You shouldn't."

"But…."

"But?"

Aziraphale pats his tummy again and looks at Crowley. Not his eyes, or his sunglasses, or even anywhere on his face. Those sad eyes droop down, running like water off a duck's….

Well, not even that. Water off a duck's back is swift and smooth. This was more like icing down a piece of marble than anything.

“Come with me.”

Crowley tugs Aziraphale’s hands with his own, walking back out through the perfect little gate that surrounded their perfect little garden. He gets a second of protest before Crowley hisses his little command and Aziraphale’s cheeks pinken, his eyes darting down to study their knuckles. To be sure, that rarely works. Aziraphale could smack Crowley then and be justified, but he must really be in sorts to let Crowley get away with a hiss and a “wiggle-on.”

They walk, one backwards, one forwards, neither of them tripping or faltering. It has been remarkably easy to memorize a simple floor plan for their garden and their cottage. If need be, Crowley could have plucked Aziraphale off the ground and carried him across the threshold in some celebratory display of their affections. Humans do that. Crowley toyed with the idea when they first moved in, same as he toys with it now. Instead, he takes Aziraphale’s hands like he’s going to waltz with him and gets him inside, because while they have few neighbors to stare in on them, he understands the naked vulnerability of the outdoors with God and all Her creations.

It's hot. Summer’s come to a close, but they’ve still a few hot days left and Crowley’s been running the oven, so there’s a lovely toasty warmth to the interior that would make him slip off his bones into a nice little pile of snake on the floor. He doesn’t. He does one better and guides Aziraphale into the living space.

“Let me get this for you,” he says, and works his fingers under Aziraphale’s shirt.

The angel barely protests. They’re not shy about seeing skin like some might think, it’s just that they’re more used to dressing up than dressing down. Plus, he’s sweat so much through the collar and the pits that it can’t be comfortable to stay in them.

Crowley could perform a very minor miracle and have Aziraphale all cleaned up with a puff of smoke and proper magic, as it were, but they’ve been trying this whole thing the human way as much as possible. That’s the side they support, that’s the side they shall remain on. Feels fitting.

_Never mind the general miracles they exude with the garden, with the electronics, with the property title. They can be forgiven for that, surely._

The shirt rises with Aziraphale’s arms and is shucked across the room, to be later retrieved and put in the basket to be washed. Aziraphale immediately lowers his arms and crosses them over his chest. There’re beautiful gold lines born like stretch marks over his hips and beside his chest there. Crowley first saw them when they were changing forms to trick Heaven and Hell and he thought he had cracked the angel somehow with his inherent Occultness. He’s learned since that Aziraphale came by them naturally, as all the angels had their little gold touches, and he dreamt of tracing them with his fingers—or his mouth, if he was being bold. He does skim the ones on Aziraphale’s hips with fingertips, which gets Aziraphale to loosen up only so that he can grip Crowley’s bony wrist. He immediately lifts his hands and shows he won’t go further if Aziraphale really feels that way.

“Too fast?” he asks, all innocence, surely, and definitely not the terrified little quiver that Aziraphale is actually upset with him and is going to shove him away or disappear somewhere and if he’s really bungled this because he didn’t let Aziraphale continue exercising himself to death outside and all the other sufferings of fucking it up enough that this crashes down and—

Right.

Deep breath, there.

Warm, buttery fingers slide up Crowley’s arm until they’re at his neck, where Aziraphale pulls his scarf loose. He swallows at the tug of fabric, bends his head a little, and allows Aziraphale to take it off with little effort. The buttons on the vest go next, then the jacket, the vest, the shirt, until Crowley’s standing shirtless same as Aziraphale.

“I don’t like it being uneven,” Aziraphale admits quietly, his eyes trained on Crowley’s abdomen just before he slots himself in and hugs Crowley, chest to bare chest.

Aziraphale’s still a bit damp, but that doesn’t stop Crowley from wrapping his long arms right around him and clinging to him. It feels, just as it always feels, both warmly wonderful and absolutely terrifying.

 _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,_ Crowley thinks. _I’m supposed to be comforting_ you _. Stop being such a perfect bastard, Angel!_

“Look,” Crowley starts and his voice is doing that weird, croaky, half-formed thing where he has to clear it before he can start again. “ _Look_ , don’t listen to Gabriel, alright? He’s a prick, and not the fun kind like you are.”

“I’m not a prick!” Aziraphale looks up, his face open and earnest.

“Teensy bit,” Crowley answers, pinching his thumb and index finger together in front of their faces. Aziraphale starts to push him away and Crowley would let him, of course, but they’re not really fighting, so he hangs onto Aziraphale’s elbows instead. “But the best kind, I promise.”

“You want something,” Aziraphale says through a pout, a wary look.

“Just you,” Crowley says, swallows again, and quickly plods ahead, losing any cool he thought he had back in the nineteenth century. Sunglasses certainly don’t cover the heat rising on his face. They should. They should do better about that. But then he’d have a helmet on instead and that’s hell on hair. “I mean, just you. J-just you to be, you know, happy.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale softens, giving him one of his perfect little smiles. “Oh, I am happy, my dear.”

“No,” Crowley answers, finding some footing, which is a miracle in and of itself because feet are weird and he’s forced to have two of them when, quite naturally, he thinks, he could go for none. “No, I mean, be happy with who you are. You’re soft.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s softness gives way to hardness, and not the fun kind, either. Not that they need that. Not without considerable effort, right? Right, no, Crowley yanks himself away from strange thoughts again. “Yes. Well. You’re skin and bones.”

“Yeah?” Crowley looks down at himself, pats his tummy, hums. He begins to lose his vowels, tripping over his words. “Ye-er, well, y’know. Well, no, not exactly. I mean, nn, like, it’s not a bad thing?” _Come on, man, do better!_ He clears his throat. “It’s not. It’s not a bad thing! And d’you know what?”

“What?” Aziraphale asks, his arms crossed again, this time not to hide himself but because he’s annoyed.

“You _like_ it,” Crowley says, the words slithering out like a greasy invitation.

“What?”

“You do,” he says, because a flustered angel puts Crowley in familiar territory. He can run and play in here all he likes, and he doesn’t feel like he’s lost his sense of gravity. “Oh, I can see it on your face there, stripping me down to my knickers, which I haven’t even got on today!”

He does. He’s wearing a pair of blue and gold tartan boxers and nobody needs to know but himself and the waistline of his jeans, assuming nothing’s peaking out to give him away.

“Crowley!”

“You’d like to see, wouldn’t you?” Crowley slightly wiggles his hips, biting his tongue, before he covers his own chest with an open palm. “Can’t believe you.”

Aziraphale puts his hands on his hips, covering up some of his angelic lines.

“Maybe I would!” he says with a huff.

Crowley’s hips stop dancing, his grin faltering a little.

“What?”

Aziraphale’s all serious, all squared shoulders, the former principality, the general, but his cheeks are flushed pink and he’s gripping his hips tight enough to make his finger pads go white.

Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone want him so plainly and it makes him weak in his considerably wobbly knees.

“You think you can be a jackanape and do your little dance there and get _me_ out of _my_ clothes?” Aziraphale pointed at Crowley’s absurdly decorative snake belt. “You first!”

“Well, now,” Crowley starts, immediately touching his belt buckle, not to take it off, of course, but to keep it firmly in place. “I don’t think…well.”

“Well,” Aziraphale repeats, hands back to his hips.

He rolls his eyes and stalks closer, which makes Crowley’s skin go all squirmy and he quickly backs up until he’s flush with a wall, the angel crowding him in. His tummy touches Crowley’s, which makes him squeak, and his hands are on top of Crowley’s biceps and he looks like he was about to shout something when he simply rests his head against Crowley’s chest with something like a sigh. Then something—lips, Crowley realizes with horrified fascination—grazes his skin, working up towards the join of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says softly, his breath light and warm on Crowley’s prickly skin. “I think you’re wonderful, dear. Perhaps I was a little jealous about you.”

“Me?” Crowley gasps. He’s not entirely certain that was even a word that got out, maybe more a breath and he’s simply mouthed what he asked.

“You’re so handsome and alluring and beautiful, no matter what. I’ve let myself go these past millennia.”

Crowley finally finds his voice same as he finds Aziraphale’s hands and pushes back with both when he asks “What?”

“I just think—”

“You’re _gorgeous_ ,” Crowley blurts out before he can decide this is saying too much, a damning confession all the same. Aziraphale gives a half-formed rebuttal, but Crowley keeps on it. “I’m serious. You’re a vision. I’m not just saying that because you can go a billion eyes and wings and fire neither.”

For some reason, this makes Aziraphale laugh. He chuckles towards his shoulder, which is smooth and pale and in need of affections, so Crowley returns the favor and kisses his skin there. They go still as a unit, a frozen statue of quiet intimacy. None of them pushing the other away. Crowley decides to take a step further and drags his lips across Aziraphale’s chest, drooping until he’s crashed to his knees and his nose is just to Aziraphale’s adorable little belly button. He’s a nice downy patch of hair swirling towards the drawstrings of his sweatpants, which Crowley affectionately brushes when sturdy hands find purchase on his scalp. He’d recently toyed with growing it out again and he’s just got it long enough to go up in a little topknot, if he wanted. Today, though, it’s all loose and untamed, perfect for the angel’s fingers to slide through and grip, which he choses to do just then.

Crowley takes his time to trace Aziraphale’s stomach, across the golden marks, across the beautiful swell of him. He keeps his hands steady on Aziraphale’s hips, finishing with a nuzzle of his cheek and finally, _finally_ glancing up, a simple man on his knees paying reverence to the being he loves.

He’s earned a gentle touch to his cheek, sweet as a kiss, really.

“Come up here,” Aziraphale says, his voice low and kind and dark as caramel. Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. He rises easy as the morning sun and fits his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders before he’s pulled in for a proper kiss.

Every time.

Every time, yes, every time, it feels like some miracle.

“Come shower with me,” Aziraphale says, maybe asks? Except he wouldn’t have to ask and, if Crowley’s really honest with himself, he likes it better when the angel demands things anyways. A shower sounds lovely, another little human trick the two of them took to like ducks. Like ducks! Finally, yes!

Crowley laughs, but doesn’t explain why, hushing Aziraphale’s little inquisitive quirk with another kiss.

“And then tea time?”

Aziraphale pecks Crowley’s nose, which he thinks was supposed to be the other way around, but who’s keeping score? God? Wherever it’s written, he hopes the tallies line up in their favor.

“And then tea time,” Aziraphale answers.

“Because I made cookies,” Crowley says.

“And you didn’t burn the cottage down,” Aziraphale remarks, like he’s surprised, like Crowley doesn’t cook for him daily, the tart. Crowley pinches his side.

They make quick work of getting to the bathroom, of starting up the shower, of picking out towels that sit neatly on the vanity. Aziraphale’s the one pushing down his sweats when he notices Crowley standing dumbly by the door, his fingers stuck in his belt loops and his mouth hanging ever so slightly open. Aziraphale’s hips are on full display and he’s got half a cheek out when he finally looks up, pauses, and reaches for him.

“You’re coming, yes?”

 _I mean, I just might_ , Crowley thinks and blushes at the inanely crude thought. He chokes out another set of nonsense sounds towards his shoulder. The steam is already making it impossible to see through his glasses and his hair is starting to curl up at the ends.

“Come here, then, dear,” Aziraphale says gently. He steps in and touches Crowley’s frames, pausing to see if he’ll shove him off. Crowley closes his eyes when Aziraphale slips his sunglasses from his face, folds them neatly and sets them beside the towels. The naked sensation is replaced with Aziraphale kissing the little snake mark by his temple and the muted clink of his belt buckle being undone.

Crowley’s scalp is on fire.

Well, not literally. Maybe? He touches his head to check and slaps the door with his knuckles. He hisses at the uncomfortable scrape, the dull zing of pain through his hand, and then hisses again when his pants go to the ankles.

“You lied about the underpants,” Aziraphale says, like he’s surprised.

“And you don’t even have any on, so,” Crowley returns, tentatively reaching down to touch Aziraphale’s shoulder, to keep from going boneless by the door and falling to the floor in a heap. “I mean, at least you have socks on. No socks in your trainers and running around flapping your arms is begging for a blister, I mean—”

“Crowley.”

“Mm?”

One of Aziraphale’s fingers trace a feather-light scar across Crowley’s abdomen, near the hip and leading down. He’s a few more crisscrossing his thighs. One doesn’t simply fall from Heaven without any repercussions. Eyes go all snake-like. Wings get burnt. Body’s damaged before they finalize on the form. He’s lucky he’s not got weeping open sores and head lizards.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it was an accidental…no it wasn’t. Aziraphale bends over and kisses the mark just for good measure and looks up at him again.

“Look at me?”

Crowley tilts his head down, but his eyes remain firmly shut, for reasons he can’t seem to coalesce into a proper thought. So, Aziraphale brushes his thumb across Crowley’s cheek until he feels like opening up.

“It’s just a shower,” Aziraphale says gently, the little coil of a laugh dribbling through his words. “If you’re not feeling up to it, you can sit on the toilet and wait for me to be done?”

“Not feeling up to it?” Crowley wrinkles his nose. It feels like a challenge. Well! “I never said, did I? Not feeling up to it. I’m feeling all sorts of up to it. I’m—!”

He finally peeks. His mouth forms a small, loose “o” at Aziraphale beaming up at him, so close and quiet, haloed by white wisps of steam from the running hot water. Crowley leans forward and Aziraphale recognizes the silent invitation for what it is, coming up to kiss him again. They let their mouths meet with greedy little moans coming from him or the angel or both and he doesn’t want to care who, so he cups Aziraphale’s head, pushing into him to get him towards the shower, pushing into him to get his sweats to drop to the floor, Crowley’s boxers following after. He has to chase this now, now, _now_ while it’s available and ready and wanting for him or he’ll remember he’s a vile serpent and he’ll fuck it all up if he doesn’t.

The water is perfectly hot on their skin. Crowley takes the brunt of it at first, their curtain shoved aside. He enjoys the heat, so he’s ideal to test it out, only for Aziraphale to keep going and slam him back against the tile wall. Crowley yelps into Aziraphale’s mouth, bucking his hips up to get away from the cold tile.

“Sorry.” Aziraphale is panting and his hands grip Crowley tightly to himself.

“It’s alright,” Crowley answers in the same breathless whisper. “Too hot?”

“No.”

“Good.”

They crash into each other again.

There’s a little window ledge that looks out into the garden, which they could push open to vent out some of the steam. Crowley keeps some of his soaps up there and Aziraphale keeps a loofa. All of the items nearly crash down on their head when Crowley reaches up and grips the ledge, bracing himself back against the wall. He blindly catches his bar of Bergamote 22 from Le Labo and sets it next to the Santal he purchased from the same company for Aziraphale. It matches an old cologne his angel liked from _oh dear God._

Crowley arches again and smacks the back of his head into the wall when Aziraphale threads his fingers between them and gently tugs one of his cocks, as there are two to chose from, being that wily serpent and all. It seems Aziraphale goes for the obvious choice with the one that sits on top.

“Oh!” Aziraphale lets him go, instead flittering his fingers near Crowley’s head. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley groans out, his eyes screwed shut again. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry. Was I too fast?”

He sounds genuinely worried, but Crowley can’t help but notice what he’s asked, and he laughs deep in his throat, which bobs up and down with his amusement.

“What?”

Oh, he’s pouting again. And the pleasant weight of his body is starting to retreat, so Crowley has to settle himself down and tug him back in before he goes and steps out of the shower.

“No, nothing,” Crowley says and considers when Aziraphale splutters. “No, I mean. I’m fine. I’m fine. I promise.”

“You smacked your head.”

“You! _Touched_ me.”

“Did you not like it?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Crowley answers quickly. He even goes so far as to thread their fingers together and kisses Aziraphale’s knuckles with water streaming down their faces. “I’m surprised. Pleasantly.”

“Oh good.” Aziraphale sags with relief, like Crowley’s just taken him to his favorite restaurant and their food has finally arrived. He grins again, his cheeks bubbling with his happiness. “I thought I’d give it a try, seeing as we’re here and we’ve kissed and…you know.”

“I do?”

“You _know_ ,” Aziraphale says more seriously, leaning in again. “Because you _love_ me?”

Crowley’s first instinct is to defend himself. Protect himself. Spit out something vile and mean and shove Aziraphale back. It’s safer to keep that part of himself buried deep in his chest where it can burn bright enough to consume him. But also.

But also….

Well, they live together! They’ve shared 6000 years together. They’ve kissed! More than once even! And he can’t bare a life where his angel is gone for good, even a moment. He’s made a garden and a home and a life with this ethereal bastard. If that’s not strictly love, then nothing is.

“I mean, yes, obviously,” Crowley says lamely, rolling his eyes to protect himself from, what, from weeping with joy? Yes. “But love’s one thing and touching and _that_ is another.”

“Just say sex, dear.”

“Angel! Really!”

“It doesn’t have to be. Sex, I mean. We don’t have to.”

“It doesn’t have to be, but it doesn’t have to be to have that either, now, does it?”

“No.” Aziraphale considers a moment, his head turned away from the spray. “I don’t think. Or…do you not want to?”

“Do I not want…what? You?” Crowley flails his arms up and immediately knocks the loofa off onto his head, which bounces lamely to the floor. They ignore it on principle. “Course I want you!”

“Because you love me.”

“Quit trying to make me say it,” Crowley says, trying to keep himself from grinning.

“You _do,_ ” Aziraphale purrs.

“Look, right, you’re a smug angel now and I’d swat your bottom if I wasn’t sure you’d love it.”

“I’d do the same,” Aziraphale answers, tapping Crowley’s chest. “But we both know you’d like it even more.”

“You’re probably right.”

“What?”

While Aziraphale looks slightly caught off guard, Crowley cups his face and kisses him again. It’s one of his favorite activities, besides drinking, driving, drudging up silly sins that technically have no real effect on humanity other than fomenting some discord that could, when looked through the right lens, be a bit clever and a bit awful and likely bite him in the ass later, and doing things that make Aziraphale happy. He sounds very happy now, in fact, whimpering little replies into Crowley’s mouth. He doesn’t pull back nor smack his head when Aziraphale tries again to reach between them. Perhaps he grips the angel’s shoulders a little tightly, so he doesn’t buck away when Aziraphale scoops up both sets of cocks this time and begins to help Crowley thrust them against his hand.

“Have you done this before?” Aziraphale asks innocently, which is such a damn ruse, considering he’s alternating his fists from one cock to the next, gliding his palm between them to press into Crowley and swipe his pinky along the seam of an opening that parts for his appendages. “With a human or…with another demon…or?”

“Another…what?” Crowley’s barely got any control of his voice, he thinks, but manages to toss out that accusation. “What, no!”

“No?”

“No!” he says more forcefully, only for Aziraphale to grip him tight enough to make him see starlight. He groans open-mouthed to the ceiling, almost swallowing a mouthful of water if he hadn’t had sense to turn his head away. It takes a moment for him to come back enough to ask, “Have you?”

“I mean, only a handful,” Aziraphale answers. He rubs his thumb across the slit of Crowley’s second cock, sharing tiny smiles every time Crowley swallows another moan. His skin drags with the friction of water, so he’s very certain to take his time, nothing too hard, nothing too violent that would make Crowley hiss, at least unpleasantly. “And it was a very long time ago. They didn’t even have all those fun harnesses they do nowadays.”

“Angel, Angel, Angel,” Crowley whispers feverishly into Aziraphale’s neck.

“I’ve considered purchasing this nice black leather one,” Aziraphale answers. “Or, do you know, perhaps a dual-sided toy?”

“Mmmfff.”

“You’re right, one step at a time. I suppose we don’t go hog wild right after we start.”

Which means Aziraphale has some items on back order and is waiting for them to come by post. Which means he’s been thinking about this a long time. Which means…Crowley twitches in his hand, one cock tapping his stomach while the other thrusts hard into Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale cups the back of Crowley’s head, letting him rest his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s petting down his soaked curls and kissing his cheek again while fisting Crowley, rubbing him closer and closer to the edge.

“I love you, my dear,” he whispers. “I love every part of you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Crowley mumbles weakly into his skin.

It should feel cheapened, perhaps, coerced into admitting it in this moment, but it feels like relief to finally admit it so plainly, so openly. Some seal carved open, broken, releasing a flood of warmth through his entire body. He feels reborn, the water boiling on his skin, Aziraphale firm and slightly cooler and crushing into him, electrifying him, that he comes with a muffled shout, spilling across Aziraphale’s hand, his plump and beautiful stomach, his thighs, the feathery blonde bush between his legs.

Crowley could faint, he thinks. His vision swims an alluring red at the edges and he has to hold onto Aziraphale so his feet don’t slip out beneath them.

“Thank goodness we did that in the shower,” Aziraphale says happily, still petting down Crowley’s hair while he shakes in his arms. Perhaps he sniffles because Aziraphale is cooing to him so gently. “Oh, dear fellow. You’re alright.”

“Mmmhmm,” Crowley answers through his nose. His eyes are swimming still and he realizes it’s not the shower that’s causing them to tear up, so he closes them and rests against Aziraphale for a moment. He blinks a few more times until he’s certain he has control of himself and looks down only to see blue feet. “Angel?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“Did you keep your socks on?”

They unglue themselves from each other just enough, Crowley’s back to the wall so he doesn’t collapse, and look down at the floor and Aziraphale’s soaking socked feet.

“Goodness, so I did,” he says and laughs. He laughs harder, letting it build in him, until he’s giggling like a loon against Crowley’s chest. Crowley holds him close and laughs gently with him, until they are all giggled out, until they’re just holding and breathing against each other.

“Did you…want me to?”

“After tea?” Aziraphale asks, looking up at him. “We can even try it in the bed. I know how much you like it.”

“It’s a good mattress,” Crowley answers easily, even if his tongue feels like its covered in bees. He must do something funny with it because Aziraphale gently taps his nose.

“Yes. It is. And that’s a good tongue and I think we should get acquainted with it.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’ll show you,” Aziraphale says and turns off the taps, the water trickling down to nothing. He’s already stepping out onto a half-soaked rug, his socks squelching unpleasantly, so he toes them off finally. Perfectly, perfectly naked at last. “There’s loads I can show you.”

“Show _me_?”

“Mmhmm!” Aziraphale beams, handing over the towel, his face blooming into a perfectly smug little grin. “But I would very much like a cookie! Or three!”

Crowley smiles, too, when he takes the towel and begins to gently wring out his hair before he ties the towel around his waist. He is glad to hear his angel so enthusiastic about his cookies. Because he made them special for Aziraphale, yes, and because it means the whole shoddy business with Gabriel’s dumb words are hopefully put to rest. If they aren’t, well, he’ll continue to show his devotion to Aziraphale, soft or firm or any way in between. Crowley even now slides himself around Aziraphale and hugs him from behind to make it absolutely certain that he loves him, loves him unconditionally, as this, as now, as always.


End file.
